


america's sweetheart

by SilverMyfanwy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Clint Barton's Farm, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Sex, Interviews, M/M, Making Out, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sexist Language, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-05-18 20:35:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19342141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverMyfanwy/pseuds/SilverMyfanwy
Summary: "America’s sweetheart.” Steve murmured. “They do know I’m queer, the son of an immigrant, used to be really sick, left wing, and only as American as a non-Native American can get, don’t they?”-Happy Birthday, Steve Rogers.





	america's sweetheart

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Steve Rogers.  
> This is a character analysis of Steve Rogers and a political analysis of Captain America.  
> It is also a love letter and a tribute to a sick boy from Brooklyn who changed the world.  
> Thank you for everything.

**America, 1941**

“Rise up,” they told them. “Rise up and fight the Nazis! Smack Hitler in the face! Make your momma proud! Be America’s sweetheart, you American boys!”

What they didn’t say was: “It’s going to be hell. For all of you. You’re all fighting for your lives and it is _miserable_. It’s the people who never see the battle fields, the people with the ideals, the people telling you to fight and why you’re fighting, that want to go to war. The soldiers, the medics, the snipers- none of them asked to be here. In another world, hell, in another year, you could be friends and neighbours with the person you just shot dead, the same person that just shot you. And you wanna know why you shoot? It’s because if you don’t, we’ll shoot you, to show that shooting people is the right thing to do if we tell you to do it, even if it’s an innocent man with a bullet in his brain.”

-

**Missouri, 2018**

There was a man wearing a flower crown standing on the porch of Clint’s farm. There was mud streaked on his face as war paint, a slightly ragged grey t-shirt clinging to his shoulders and he was rubbing the back of his neck. He smiled shyly with his mouth but his eyes were alive and joyful.

It would have taken someone made of sterner stuff than Bucky to not have kissed him.

After a few moments, Steve pulled away and smiled at Bucky, cheeks flushed red.

“You’re gorgeous,” Bucky murmured, looking at Steve lovingly and running his thumb over his jaw.

“So ‘re you.”

Bucky grinned and felt the corners of his eyes crinkle. “America’s sweetheart, be my darling?”

-

**France, 1942**

“You know they call me America’s sweetheart?” Steve coughed. Blood splattered on the ground beside him and Bucky tried not to wince.

“I know.” his voice was hoarse. It didn’t get much practice those days. He spent most of his time waiting silently with a gun.

“I used to wonder if they still would if they knew what I’ve done out here.” Steve rubbed the side of his face, leaving it streaked with grime. “But now I know that they call me America’s sweetheart _because_ of what I’ve done out here. An it makes me sick, Buck. Sicker than when we ate bad meat that Spring.”

Bucky was silent as Steve rested his head on his shoulder. Unspoken words passed between them and Bucky rested his head on top of Steve’s. “Punk.”

Steve didn’t respond.

“Steve?”

Steve stood up, grimacing and clutching his side.

Panic began to rise in Bucky’s stomach. “Steve? Where are you going?”

Steve was stumbling, tottering, limping, towards the edge of the trench. He turned his head over his shoulder to give Bucky a look all too familiar; jaw set, lips pressed tightly together, eyes burning. “To end it.”

Bucky lurched upwards and grabbed at Steve’s arm. “Stevie what the hell you-”

“I’m gonna end this war.”

Bucky had never seen anyone look so determined.

“I’m going to Berlin. I’m going to kill Hitler.”

“How the hell you gonna do that?” Bucky demanded, trying to keep his voice low.

Steve shrugged, but didn’t seem bothered.

“You gonna take the Reich on all by yourself?” Bucky asked incredulously.

“If I have to.”

Something changed inside Bucky. It didn’t break or bend or snap, it was simply as if a thread in the tapestry of his soul unraveled and slipped away, never to be seen again. “What would I have to do to make you stay?”

Steve looked at the ground, though it was more death than dirt. “Nothin’s gonna stop me from going.”

“Then go.” Bucky said sharply.

Steve looked up, shocked. “Bu-”

“Go, and know that I love you and I’m holding the line here.” Bucky finished. “End it.”

Steve kissed Bucky and took a step back. “I’m not doing this for America.” he said quietly. “I’m doing this so we can go home.”

Bucky gave a wry smile; heart so proud of, and so scared for, the man standing in front of him. “America’s sweetheart, you’re the only darlin’ for me.”

-

**Washington D.C., 2015**

“And on the show today we have America’s golden boy, the one and the only Captain America! Steve Rogers, how you doin’?” the presenter leaned over the table to shake hands with Steve, who was wearing a suit and doing his best press smile.

“Very well, how are you?”

“Fantastic, thanks so much for coming on the show!”

“It’s a pleasure to be here.”

The audience was still clapping slightly and Steve smiled at them, pretending that he wasn’t wondering why on earth they would clap him for simply being polite.

“Let’s deal with the elephant in the room.” the presenter picked up one of his cue cards and twirled it between his fingers. “Has America’s sweetheart got a sweetheart of his own?”

Before Steve had a chance to answer, the presenter spoke again.

“You must do! You’re America’s golden boy, people must be lining up around the block to date you!”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled the comments off. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

The presenter raised an eyebrow and gestured wordlessly to the screen, where a photo of Steve laughing, topless and covered in water droplets- they must have got it from the day Sam pushed him in a pond for a laugh- had appeared. The audience cheered and Steve felt his cheeks getting hot.

“But for real. Does Captain America have a best gal? I mean, Na-”

Steve’s demeanor changed instantly. “Don’t say that.”

The presenter paused, puzzled. “Say what?”

“Best gal. It’s objectifying. If you want to ask me if I have a girlfriend, just say it.” Steve said flatly. “Have some respect.”

He zoned out on the presenter’s apology, answered the questions briskly, stopped smiling. He left as soon as possible.

The interview made the headlines the next day. ‘America’s Sweetheart Turns Sour’.

Steve shook his head when he saw it.

“Ignore it.” Sam said. “It’s just-”

“They’re angry.” Steve said, ignoring him. “They see me as the embodiment of everything they believe in. And then I go and tell them their beliefs are wrong.”

-

**Brooklyn, 1938**

Bucky watched Steve wrapping his knuckles with folded arms and raised eyebrows.

Steve shot him a dark look.

“What you lookin’ at me like that for?” Bucky demanded.

“You could help, jerk.”

“If you go gettin’ yourself into stupid fights like that, you can ruddy well bandage yourself up afterwards.”

Steve scowled at his hands. Bucky sighed and pulled Steve to his feet, wrapping him into a hug. He kissed the side of Steve’s head. “You know I love you, punk.”

Steve huffed into Bucky’s shoulder, but clutched at the back of his shirt anyway. “You should be lovin’ a proper American girl who can give you a life, Buck.”

“You’re my proper American boy.” Bucky murmured. “An you give me all the life I’ll ever need.”

“Can’t give you kids.”

“Who wants kids? They’re gross.”

Steve chuckled and pressed a kiss onto Bucky’s shoulder.

“You’re it for me, pal.” Bucky muttered. “To the end of the line.”

“End of the line.”

Bucky could feel Steve’s tears dampening his shirt and held his boy tighter, wishing that the rest of the world could see Steve in the way he did; strong and brave, smart and caring, with the biggest heart he’d ever met on anyone. Gentle and kind, respectful and polite, until someone needed a few strong words or a cuff on the ear.

An American golden boy, the kind who girl after girl would want to dance all night with if only it weren’t for his lungs, and his back, and his heart, and his eyes, and his ear, and-

Bucky set his jaw.

If he could see past all of that, there was no reason why they couldn’t either.

He pressed his face into Steve’s hair. “If only they could see you,” he murmured. “America’s sweetheart, that’s what you’d be.”

“Don’t wanna be America’s sweetheart.” Steve muttered. He tipped his head up to look at Bucky. “Wanna be your sweetheart.”

“You are.” Bucky pressed their foreheads together. “To the end of the line. I just told you that. Your memory goin’ too or somethin’?”

“Shut up.” Steve muttered, then kissed him good and proper.

“My sweetheart.” Bucky told him between kisses. “My sweetheart, my sweetheart, my sweetheart ‘til the end of the line, Steve, oh Stevie-”  

-

**Brooklyn, 2016**

“America’s sweetheart.” Steve murmured. “They do know I’m queer, the son of an immigrant, used to be really sick, left wing, and only as American as a non-Native American can get, don’t they?”

“I have no idea.” Natasha replied. “But either way, you’re America’s sweetheart down both sides of the political divide.” she gave a dry smile. “And for opposing reasons, to top it off.”

-

**Manhattan, 2019**

“Move it, America’s sweetheart.” Tony elbowed Steve out of the way so he could sit down.

Bucky glared at Tony. “’S’cuse me? He ain’t America’s sweetheart.”

“Why not?”

“Coz he’s my sweetheart.” Bucky said defiantly, taking a bite of his pizza and wrapping an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “An I ain’t sharin’.”

Steve looked up at Bucky lovingly and Clint made a retching noise.

“Get a room.” Sam muttered. “Ideally in another state so we can’t hear it.”

Bucky looked to Steve and grinned. “You wanna take that as a challenge, sweetheart? ‘Bout time we found out what them fancy new lungs of yours can do.”

Steve threw back his head and laughed; full of joy, full of love.

-

**Brooklyn, 1923**

There was a sickly blonde boy lying on an old bed, coughing his lungs out as the rain hammered down. He was running a fever, struggling to see and could hardly hear his own tired, ragged heartbeat. He was barely aware of his limp hand being held by a boy who wasn’t his brother, or his cousin, but would one day be his lover. He was tired and ill and queer, coz he was damned sure the last two weren’t the same thing, and he didn’t think he was gonna make it through the day, or night, or whatever it was. His ma was at the door coz she’d called the priest for last rites and his da was dead and gone before he’d even been born.

He spoke his ma’s language from an island across an ocean as easily as he spoke Brooklyn’s English. They had no money, no food, no hope. He’d sold his Catholic cross to buy meds that hadn’t worked. He got into fights with bullies and cat-callers and thugs.

He would have lost every time if it weren’t for the boy always at his six.

Most had told his ma to cast him out, give him to the nuns or leave him on the street because there was no way in hell a baby that small and sick would make it to a year; but he had. He’d made it fifteen long, painful, years now, despite getting close to the end countless times, and always managed to scrape himself off Death’s doorstep even when it seemed too late.

His name was Steve Rogers and he was nobody’s sweetheart.

He was stubborn and tough, tougher than he ever got credit for. When he got mad, righteousness came out of his ears instead of steam, and he’d proved everybody wrong. He’d had few friends, fewer girls, and most people just saw him as the sick kid with stitches from snitching.

He had nothing to lose and everything to prove.

When the priest came in, even though he was in agony and barely conscious, he grit his teeth and snarled. “I ain’t dyin’ tonight, Father. Not if I can help it. And not tomorrow mornin’ neither, so you can save your prayers for someone who needs it.”

His name was Steve Rogers, he bled justice, and he would have walked with his head up if it weren’t for his spine.

The country he lived in, a country attacked and brutalised and invaded, a country whose children had been massacred and enslaved and oppressed- that country said  _mine_. My darling. My baby. You are everything I want in a man, in a human, for I’m just as queer as you are. You will be my champion, my hero. Teach them to be kind, teach them that you’re all immigrants, teach them to care. You who are seen as nothing will be seen as _everything_.

You will be my sweetheart.

His name was Steve Rogers and he was America’s sweetheart.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm silvermyfanwy on Tumblr!


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